


Caeruleus

by CountlessStars



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11895030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountlessStars/pseuds/CountlessStars
Summary: The marks start appearing just as the world finally loses its mind and delves into war.





	Caeruleus

**Author's Note:**

> This...this is not what I was supposed to be writing, but apparently I have no self-control lol. So this is me, losing my mind. Enjoy!

 

The marks start appearing just as the world finally loses its mind and delves into war.

Collins doesn't have one—most of the RAF pilots don't, but he knows it might just appear one day, out of nowhere. He prefers not to think about that possibility.

There are dozens of theories popping up, each more insane than the last one, but with the war breathing down their neck, no one has the time look for the causes—or consequences.

The marks just _are_.

There are people like Leary—who incessantly talks about the marks to anyone who doesn't punch him—people that believe that the marks only started to appear _because_ of the war. Collins wants to laugh at that, laugh at the cruel irony of that idea. Instead, he rolls his eyes and points out that nothing like that happened in the war before this one, and Leary makes an offended noise before scraping up the sides of his bowl for the last mouthful of the thick slimy porridge and stomps away without another word.

Collins stretches his legs under the table and idly taps the spoon on the rim of his bowl, thoughts whirling in his head without any order.

"D'you mind?" a voice on his nine says and Collins lifts his head, just enough to see a man waving to the now empty seat across the table.

"Sure," Collins says absentmindedly.

The other man—a pilot, too—grunts in reply and sits down, his boots knocking against Collins' own before Collins hastily folds his legs once again.

He thinks he hears the man huff out a breathy laugh, but when he looks at him, his face is perfectly blank. The man is clean-shaven and his eyes seem grey in the 6 o'clock pale light.

"Never seen you around here before," Collins says after a moment of silence. He goes for a pleasant, light tone, but the man across him doesn't seem to care.

"That's probably because I've only arrived–" the man glances at the watch on his wrist, "–twenty-seven minutes ago."

A moment of silence stretches between them and then Collins surprises himself by laughing out loud.

The man across him lifts an eyebrow, but his eyes don't look as cold as they did just a moment ago. He keeps a steady gaze on Collins while he laughs.

"I'm Collins," he says after a moment, still grinning.

"Farrier," the men replies and turns his attention back to the mediocre breakfast.

Collins' bowl is empty, but he stays there for a little longer.

-

The sun is slowly dropping behind the horizon and Collins is sitting on the roof of one of the storage buildings, hidden from everyone's view.

There's still enough light for him to read the letter he's received just a few hours ago. It's almost two pages long and most of it consist of Elaine describing in great detail her meeting with an injured soldier—one that she now shares a mark with. There's even a small picture of it, drawn carefully in one of the corners. It's a small flower, one Collins has never seen before, with thin leaves and delicate petals that are coloured in blue ink.

Collins looks at the flower and feels something strange settle in his chest, weighing him down ever so slightly.

He is folding the letter when he hears footsteps on the metal plating of the roof behind him.

"Nice place," Farrier says. His voice is different now than in the air just a few hours before—it's smoother now, less commanding.

"That's why I was keeping it to myself," Collins says pointedly. He's only half joking, but Farrier doesn't seem to mind—he takes two more steps and sits down besides Collins.

"A letter from your girl, is it?" Farrier nods towards the folded piece of paper in Collins' hands.

Collins snorts. He unfolds the letter again, touches Elaine's name on the bottom of the page with his thumb, traces it gently. He feels Farrier's eyes on him.

"It's from my sister. She's a nurse in London," he says, feeling a brief surge of pride in his voice. He blinks and folds the letter carefully.

Farrier hums. "No sweetheart, then?" he continues, something akin to amusement in his voice. Collins turns his head to frown at him icily, but Farrier' eyes gleam bright in the setting sun and he finds himself staring instead.

Collins sighs and carefully puts the letter in his pocket. "None that I know of, no."

Farrier's mouth twitches in something almost like a smile, then moves as if to speak, but he stays silent.

Collins pulls out a cigarette, lights it with the last one of his matches. When the smoke fills his lungs, he feels himself relaxing, the tension he wasn't even aware of leaving his shoulders. After the second drag, he offers the cigarette to Farrier.

Their fingers don't touch, but for a split second, Collins thinks he can feel the heat of Farrier's fingers on his own. He bites his lip and holds the smoke for a second longer, then blows it through his nose.

The sun disappears quickly, after that. The last few rays of daylight paint the clouds bright pink and orange, then dissipate into dark, soft blue. The base grows quiet as the lights inside the barracks begin to turn on.

Collins fights the urge to close his eyes and fall asleep right there on that roof, with Farrier sitting next to him.

Through the haziness of exhaustion, Collins notices that, at some point between the last two cigarette drags, Farrier must have moved closer—now he is firmly in Collins' space, so close that Collins can feel his every movement more than see it.

The air is growing colder with every passing second, but Collins' skin is on fire. It feels almost comforting.

-

It's been raining for the past three days. The winds are too strong for the Spitfires to take off and Collins is sitting on his bed, growing more and more restless.

He gives up pretending to read and slams the book shut—the sound gets lost in the drumming of raindrops against the roof.

He grabs his coat and heads out.

The wind whips the rain into his face—he is completely soaked in the few seconds it takes him to circle the building. There, under the jutting roof that just barely keeps the rain away, he sees Farrier, leaning against the wall and smoking.

"Lovely day, innit?" Farrier looks at the hair sticking to Collins' forehead. Collins runs a hand though it, pushes it from his face, acutely aware of Farrier's eyes on him.

He fumbles through his coat and curses with a cigarette between his lips when he finds his matches completely damp.

Farrier chuckles as he leans closer and lights Collins' cigarette with his own. They stay like that, a brief moment that seems to drag on forever, until Farrier leans back, his eyes still on the cigarette in Collins' mouth.

The raindrops hammer loudly around them, but Collins is sure the noise can't drown the frantic beating of his heart.

-

They lose four men in three days. Collins see them all go down in flashes of light and clouds of smoke. The last one of them is Wilson, whose panicked shrieks echo on the radio as his cockpit fills with flames. He is not even nineteen when he dies, screaming for his mother.

Collins hands are still shaking, almost five hours after the landing. Farrier takes the cigarette from his fingers and lights it for him.

-

When the next letter from Elaine arrives, its edges are curled and ripped like it has been drenched in water. The words, smudged and strewn across the page carelessly, reveal the message to Collins before he even reads them—the soldier is dead and Elaine's mark is gone.

 _As if it never existed_ , she wrote, and Collins' hands crumple the letter before he can stop himself. He crushes the paper in his fist and punches the wall, hits it until he doesn't feel his fingers anymore, until someone is calling his name and pulling him away.

-

His right hand is one big ugly bruise, his knuckles are swollen and raw, but somehow, miraculously, his bones stay whole.

It takes two days for the swelling to go down and even then, he can only open his hand enough to clumsily grab a spoon in the mess hall.

Leary takes a seat across from him and as soon as the word _mark_ leaves his mouth, Collins throws himself across the table and punches him in the teeth.

Farrier hauls him from the mess hall by the back of his shirt, ignores the curses Collins is spitting at him, at everyone around.

After that, when Collins' mind clears a bit, he finds himself waiting for the inevitable consequences. But the squadron leader talks to him in a steady, soft voice and Leary apologises to him and Collins feels like he's lost control, like he's freefalling.

Farrier keeps looking at him with sad eyes and Collins doesn't understand why.

-

It's midday and the metal of the roof is quickly warming up under Collins' body.

He clenches and unclenches his hand, again and again, until his fingers start to move a bit smoother. It still hurts, but the bruises have almost faded and the scabs on his knuckles have been replaced by new white skin. He observes the movement of the tendons beneath his skin, predictable and strangely hypnotic.

He hears the planes before he sees them.

Three Spitfires went out in the morning and three are returning now, except the last one has thick black smoke coming from the side, trailing across the sky.

Collins climbs halfway down the building and jumps the rest of the way. He is on the tarmac before the plane even touches the ground.

The smoke gets into his eyes and throat as soon as the Spitfire lands and rolls to a halt.

The canopy is riddled with holes and Collins' heart is beating double time as he climbs the wing of the plane to get it open. His fingers are blazing with pain but he barely feels it as his hands claw at the edge.

The canopy finally gives way. Only then he realises that it's Farrier's plane.

Collins is certain his heart has stopped. He doesn't know how he unbuckles the harness, how he hauls him from the cockpit by himself.

He's muttering under his breath, repeating Farrier's name over and over again, but Farrier's face is pale and his eyes are dull, unfocused. There's blood trickling from under Farrier's jacket and when he unzips it, his heart lurches. Without thinking, he presses his bare hands across the wounds to stop the horrifying bleeding.

When he touches Farrier, the whole world flips upside down.

Collins feels himself shattering from the inside out, he's falling and flying at the same time and tries to breathe but he can't find his lungs.

Farrier's blood trickles steadily from between Collins' fingers. It's warm and red, _so red_.

-

Afterwards, Collins doesn't remember letting go of Farrier, he doesn't remember being pushed aside when the medics finally appear. He doesn't remember sitting on the tarmac after Farrier is taken away, looking at the blood drying on his hands. It's other people who tell him as much, speaking in unsure voices and not meeting his eyes, so Collins figures it might be true.

He remembers some of it, though. Getting up on shaky knees, seeing Farrier's heavy sheepskin jacket on the ground, heavier still with blood soaked into it.

He grabs it, clutches it tightly in his hands. Droplets of blood, _Farrier's blood_ , splatter on the ground as he slowly walks away from the tarmac.

He gets to the washrooms and scrubs the jacket, rinses it until his hands sting, until the water turns clear instead of crimson.

He carefully places the jacket on top of Farrier's bed, doesn't look at the parts where the leather is riddled with holes.

He washes himself in scorching hot water, claws at his skin until all the dried blood comes off.

It's barely three o'clock when he curls up on top of his bed.

Vaguely, he registers a bruise on the inside of his left elbow that has not been there before.

It's the strangest shade of blue.

-

Farrier spends more than two weeks at the hospital.

Collins spends more than two weeks pretending everything is normal. He flies again, listens to orders, eats and sleeps and smokes and answers questions when asked. _Everything is normal_ , he repeats to himself.

Collins spends more than two weeks staring at the bruise on his arm that is not really a bruise at all.

-

Farrier returns to the base just as Collins is finishing his breakfast.

His chest and his right arm are bandaged, a shirt thrown over his shoulders and something in his expression changes when he finds Collins in the morning crowd of the mess hall.

Collins feels light, dizzyingly light, like he's in a Spitfire that's plummeting to the ground. He wants to say something, anything, but he can't find any word in his brain that isn't _Farrier_ , so instead he stands up, gulps the rest of his tea and walks out, almost brushing Farrier's uninjured shoulder on the way.

Outside, the world is grey with incessant drizzle and Collins reflexively tightens his jacket around his body.

Farrier is just a few steps behind him as he walks around the building and fishes out a single crumpled cigarette from his pocket.

Collins leans against the wall with his shoulder. Farrier watches as he lights up the cigarette, takes a drag and holds it between them.

Farrier deliberately brushes his fingers across Collin's when he takes the cigarette from him. It sends Collins' heart hammering wildly in his chest and somehow he knows that Farrier knows it, too. Collins watches as Farrier's lips wrap around the flimsy paper.

"It's there, you know," Farrier says, exhaling the smoke to the sky in slow curls.

"What?" Collins asks absentmindedly.

Farrier takes a deep breath, but his next words still come out a bit choked. "The mark. I've seen it when they changed the bandages. It's blue. Like...like the sky, when you're up there."

Farrier's chin jerks towards the dark clouds above them, pointing. His fingers are visibly shaking when he takes a long drag.

"How can you even know it's...me?" Collins asks hesitantly, clutching his own arm though the layers of clothing.

There's a moment of complete silence before Farrier turns to face him. Something like a smile keeps tugging at the corner of his mouth when he asks, "And who else would it be?"

-

Collins is sitting on the roof, watching the sunset. The air is too warm and thick and he's sweating, but he can't bring himself to care. He hears footsteps approaching and before he can even turn to look back, Farrier is sitting right next to him.

"I'm officially back on duty," he says after a while. He's looking at the bright sky, not at Collins, but Collins nods anyway.

Farrier is so close that Collins feels it when he takes a deep breath to speak again.

"No more bandages. Finally," he adds, his tone light and careful, and Collins feels his heart stop.

Farrier moves like he has all the time in the world and Collins can't look away, _can't_ , even if he wanted to. Farrier slides the sleeve of his shirt up over his forearm, slowly, almost like he expects Collins to startle, to run away.

The sun has set, Collins notices somewhere in the back of his mind, but there's still enough light for him to clearly see Farrier's mark, right above his forearm.

It looks exactly like his own.

There's a fresh scar framing it on one side, but the mark is smooth and perfectly blue and Collins wants to touch it—so he _does_.

Every touch sends sparkles running across his whole body. Collins keeps his fingers on Farrier's mark until the night settles slowly around them, until the bright blue of the mark becomes a colourless smudge.

He pulls his hand back slowly, hesitantly and sees Farrier looking at him, eyes wide but calm.

Then there's a hand on the back of his head, fingers gently curling into his skin, and he finds himself leaning forward, pressing a kiss to Farrier's lips.

They break apart after a second, their breaths mixing together in the small space between them.

Then Farrier's hand tightens on Collins' neck, pulling him closer once more and when Farrier grips his arm, just over the mark, Collins sighs into the kiss and wraps his arms around Farrier, presses their bodies closer together.

-

A month later, Collins almost finds his death in the grey waters of the Channel.

It's a young boy that cracks the canopy open, that pulls him out of the sinking Spitfire and pushes a dry blanket into his hands.

He has a mark on the back of his hand, dark and more intricate than any other Collins has ever seen. He sees it again just moments after, on the hand of another boy, lying unconscious in the belly of the boat. There's a smudge of blood on the wood next to his head and Collins wishes he could help, but he doesn't know how.

Just minutes later, he watches the boy's mark disappear as they pull the soldiers from the water. Collins sees the boy notice, too—he looks at his hand, wipes away the oil with the sleeve of his jumper and stares at the white skin for a moment.

The boy blinks once, takes a shaky breath and turns around to pull another soldier from the water. Collins has never felt less brave in his entire life.

He watches Farrier's plane fly above his head and over the long beaches of Dunkirk.

When the familiar sound of the Spitfire's engine disappears, he grips his arm, willing the mark to stay in place.

-

It takes him almost a whole day to get back to the base.

His fingers are still pressed into the dip of his elbow when he describes their mission, the death of Adams and the disappearance of Farrier. His voice is hollow when he narrates the events and his fingers shake when he points at the map.

When they finally dismiss him, he stumbles back to the barracks, blood ringing in his ears. His knees buckle just before his bed and he falls to the floor.

He clumsily peels off his jacket, his shirt and then, with heart pounding madly, painfully in his chest, he finally lets himself take a look.

Collins lets out a choked sob when he sees the blue smudge perfectly unchanged, still in its place.

He stays there, lying on the floor, for what seems like hours, staring at the piece of sky on his skin. He touches the mark carefully, running his fingers around the edges and distantly wonders if Farrier can feel it, too.

  
Somehow, he falls asleep.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So there's an airport near where I live and pretty much every weekend, some dudes do aerobatics over there (all the fancy loops and spins and shit) and I used to be like _meh, cool I guess_ but ever since these two stupid pilots ( _stupid sexy pilots_ lol) took over my life, I find myself just staring at the tricks and freaking cheering internally hahaha! It's so fucking dumb and I blame Christopher Nolan.


End file.
